


Man Versus Dark One

by AntiKryptonite



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chuck AU, F/M, Rumple is Chuck Bartowski, The AU no one asked for and probably no one ever imagined but here it is anyway, it's weird I know but it makes me happy, seriously I put way too much time and thought into this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 06:42:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17596379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiKryptonite/pseuds/AntiKryptonite
Summary: Rumple lives a monotonous life with very few options available to him, all thanks to the betrayal of one of his oldest friends. So when that same friend sends him a strange dagger, he's not surprised it brings him trouble, though he might rethink that when it brings a beautiful woman named Belle into his life. Chuck AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This New Year's, I decided to try to finish up a lot of unfinished fics languishing in my forgotten documents, and that was when I foud a story I'd started over four years ago but had pretty much forgotten before I wrote the two final scenes. So, in the spirit of finishing up some things, I wrote the end. Four years late, but oh well, I hope someone out there enjoys the story as much as I enjoyed matching up all the OUaT characters with the Chuck characters!

* * *

If there was one advantage to living a life of tedious monotony, it was the lack of surprises that came along with it. In the past five years, Rumple had grown to depend on the surety of routine, the steadiness of boredom, even to take comfort in it, the knowledge that he and his life would never change again. It only stood to reason, then, that it would be Darkin who ripped away normality and surprised him—or scared him, really, but this was Darkin, so _that_ actually wasn’t surprising.

“It was your birthday,” David told him when he mentioned it at breakfast the next day. “The man probably just wanted to make amends.”

“For framing me for forgery so I’d lose my shop and get tossed in prison?” Rumple scoffed bitterly—and he hated being bitter, hated the cynical note in his own voice, but life was what it was and he’d long since given up fighting it. “He’s going to have to do more than send me a letter with a puzzle and a knife inside.”

“At least he tried—” Charming began, but Mary Margaret cut him off by bustling over with more pancakes. She set them down on the table with a bit too much force, the resulting clang silencing both David and Rumple.

“Enough,” she said with a strained smile. “He tried, but it doesn’t matter—it’s all in the past. Right, Rumple?”

Rumple gave his younger sister a smile every bit as fake as hers and hid his hand under the table. No need to worry her with the long gash the knife had scored along his palm when he’d solved Darkin’s puzzle and felt the knife grow searing hot. “Right,” he said grimly. “The past.”

And it was. Five years was a long time, and he shouldn’t still be wallowing in the mistakes he’d made then—namely, believing Darkin to be his friend and thinking a woman as smart and beautiful as Milah could ever really love him. But he _had_ trusted Darkin—trusted him with his keys and his papers and his passcodes—and he _did_ love Milah—even though she’d ripped his heart out—and it wasn’t so easy to leave all that behind as if it didn’t matter.

It did matter. Five years, and it still mattered more than anything his life currently held.

But Mary Margaret had been good enough to take him in after he’d been released from prison three years before, and she and her husband were letting him stay in the extra room for next to nothing, which was all he could afford on his current salary, and he hated to burden them anymore than necessary when he knew he couldn’t pay them back. So he ate a pancake to be polite, steadfastly ignored the flirting going on between his sister and her charming husband, and when the doorbell rang he headed off to catch his ride to work.

“Hey, Bae,” he greeted, his smile immediate and real despite the feverish ache of his bandaged palm.

Bae sighed and rolled his eyes as he led Rumple to the company car they shared. “I’ve told you, it’s _Neal_ now.”

“Neal, right.” Rumple tried his best to hide his discomfort with the name and the familiar assertion. He slid into the passenger seat, tucking his cane next to him, before Bae could reply. Five years wasn’t long at all, not to him, but to Bae, his closest friend since high school, it was five years too long. He’d been infuriated on Rumple’s behalf when he’d gone to post bail for him. He’d been willing to confront Darkin and Milah for what they’d done, force them to confess and be brought to justice. He’d been so sure that everything could be set right.

But Rumple had just wanted it— _still_ wanted it—all to be over, had wanted to crawl into a deep, dark hole and hide, so he’d stopped Bae from doing anything but letting it go. And he’d curled in on himself and hid, refusing to move on—because what was there to move onto?—when Bae had tried to get him back into the antiques business. And he’d settled himself into a life of tedium and few surprises with no complaint while Bae had gown quieter and sterner and more cynical than even Rumple. Now, it was hard to remember, sometimes, how close they’d once been, before the debacle had managed to sour even their friendship.

“Anything special happen on your birthday?” Neal asked after several awkward moments. It was a peace offering and Rumple wanted to grab hold of it, wanted to recapture some of his old bond with Bae, but he couldn’t mention Darkin’s letter and that was really the only thing of note that had occurred. Nothing else, nothing to spark that wanderlust Bae had always burned with but now tried to pretend he didn’t have. Nothing at all from Bae himself, or from Milah, or from the contacts that Rumple had once developed to make his shop the thriving business it had been.

So all he said was, “Not much,” and he stared out the window and pretended that he’d enjoyed his birthday. Beside his knee, with the smooth feel of his cane against the back of his hand, he dug a thumb into the red cut on his hand and tried to turn the white bandage red with blood.

“Yeah?” Bae looked over at him, obviously not quite content with that.

Rumple shrugged. “Mary Margaret bought me some new wool and a few models. Charming invited me to go to the horse races with him sometime.”

“Of course he did.” Bae let out a bark of laughter and shook his head. “You couldn’t have picked a better name for him, huh?”

“Yeah, well, David’s a regular Prince Charming in everything.” Rumple smiled shyly at Bae, loath to let this moment go even though he knew that the minute Bae pulled into their usual parking space, everything would go back to the way it’d been since Darkin had told him he’d called the police. Outside, out of the corner of his eye, Rumple could see the parking lot ahead. A bit desperately, he said, “Still, he’s much better than Mary Margaret’s first boyfriend, right? What was his name again?”

“Lance,” Bae said easily, parking and shutting off the engine. “And don’t pretend you didn’t know that—you remember everything.”

Rumple scowled. “Unfortunately,” he muttered, and was both surprised and pleased when that provoked a laugh from Bae.

Bae seemed just as surprised, the laughter falling away. “Well.” He took a deep breath, paused as if he had something to say, but then he opened the door and swung out of the car. “Time to get to work, I guess,” he said, once more in that neutral tone of voice that had become the norm when Rumple had finally told him to his face that he wasn’t going to go after Darkin.

“Yeah,” Rumple said quietly, getting out of the car much slower and leaning on his cane. “Time to go to work.”

Clothe More wasn’t the most prestigious place to work—in fact, it was probably one of the worst—but it was all Rumple was good enough for anymore, and it was all Bae seemed able to find, so they were stuck with it. It was nothing more than a huge square, filled with racks and racks of clothing set in something approximating departments, and staffed by employees who knew next to nothing about clothes at all.

Rumple headed up the tailoring department, which mostly consisted of just him, and occasionally Jefferson and Viktor when things were busy. Once, Bae had assisted him, eager to learn the tools of the trade, soaking it all in as quickly and adeptly as he did everything, thirsty just for knowledge and experience. But Bae had stopped helping him after only a few months, and now he stayed up in the front of the store with Ruby and the handymen janitors—or as Bae called them, the seven dwarfs.

Bae gave a slight nod of farewell at the doors—maybe a bit slower than usual, but otherwise just as he did every day—and then he was gone, off to the customer service desk. Rumple let out a quiet sigh and turned to the counter in back where his sewing supplies were.

“Look who deigns to honor us with his presence!”

Despite the familiarity of this too, Rumple couldn’t help but sigh again. “Good morning, Viktor,” he said wearily. He didn’t need to glance over to know that the dapper, blonde Brit was shadowed by the dark, dour gentleman who was always wearing a hat. If he’d known when Archie first hired them that the outgoing womanizer, Viktor Whale, would get along with—and find a co-conspirator for all his crazier schemes in—the crazy Jefferson, Rumple would have insisted they be kept separated. But he of all people knew that hindsight was 20/20, and who would have ever guessed the two would even get along?

“Good morning?” Viktor’s brows rose, his British accent as pronounced as always. “I wouldn’t call it good, would you, Jeff?”

Jefferson crossed his arms on the counter and bent to rest his chin atop them. “Definitely not. Not when you left us three orders to complete on our own.”

“Three orders?” Rumple studied them flatly, provoked into looking straight at the troublesome duo. “There were six back there to be done.”

“Three for you, three for us,” Viktor said with a frown. “That’s called teamwork, Rumple.”

“Teamwork.” He felt a bit of vindictive pleasure when they shifted under his thin smile. “So when I go talk to Archie about why we’re behind, you’re both going to go with me, right?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s _your_ job,” Jefferson said hastily while Viktor backed up behind him. “Don’t make _us_ your scapegoats.”

“Right.” Rumple scoffed and turned away from their graceless retreat to look over the order forms, trying to figure out which three—or, more likely, four—they’d left for him.

“You shouldn’t let them get away with leaving all the work to you,” Ruby said, coming around the counter to lean back against it, her eyes intent on his face.

Rumple shrugged, not even sparing a glance to the young woman’s bared midriff and tanned legs. Ruby came with her own set of pitfalls and snares, but she was less abrasive than most everyone else besides Bae, so he didn’t mind her occasional foray into his corner of Clothe More.

“I don’t mind,” he said softly when she nudged him with an elbow. “If _I_ do it, I know it’ll get done right.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you work too hard?” she asked with a roll of her eyes.

“Archie certainly hasn’t,” he said pointedly.

“Welllll,” Ruby drew the word out, “I guess that means you’ll want to know about a potential customer wandering around over by the vintage dresses?”

Rumple frowned at her. “Why isn’t Bae dealing with her?”

Laughing, Ruby gave him an incredulous look. “Because he’s currently in a meeting with Archie.” When he only stared at her, she gave a sigh of exasperation and straightened. “He’s interviewing for the assistant manager position? The one he’s wanted for months? The one that might let him travel like he wants? Seriously, Rumple, I can’t believe you forgot about it!”

“Forgot,” Rumple said numbly. “Right. Of course.”

“So you’ll see to the customer?”

“Customer,” he repeated again, on autopilot. “Yes. Of course.”

Ruby gave him a strange look. “Ooookay, then. Vintage, remember.”

“Right.” And he stared after her even after she moved out of sight, his eyes not really seeing what was there, his thoughts swirling chaotically.

Bae in a meeting with Archie. Bae wanting to move up. Move _on_. And Bae was talented, and he could be ambitious when he wasn’t dragged down by regrets, and Archie was always willing to let other people take charge so he didn’t have to worry about the stress and guilt of making decision, and…and that meant Bae was going to get the position. And he was going to leave, to travel to other Clothe More places, their warehouses and their meetings. He’d be gone, and Rumple wouldn’t even get to see him for those few awkward, painful moments at the beginning and end of each shift.

Rumple didn’t really think he was in a fit state to talk to customers, but he was vaguely aware he’d told Ruby he would see to it, so he wandered toward the vintage department. The store seemed too big and open and echoing, but at the same time, it was closing in around him so fast he had to take rapid sips of air to keep from hyperventilating. His hand squeezed his cane so violently that he felt his bones protest. And yet, when he turned into the correct aisle, all that disappeared.

He had time only to notice, briefly, dark curls and the color blue—blue shirt, blue pants, blue coat, and a white scarf that registered oddly brilliant against all the blue—before the woman reaching for a gold and green scarf on the top shelf wavered and fell backward.

His breath whooshed out of him when he dropped his cane, staggered forward, and caught the woman in his arms. The store—large and echoing, small and claustrophobic—vanished next to the sensation of warm skin draped against him, hair tickling his chin, an arm wrapped around his neck, and bright, diamond-sharp eyes staring at him, wide and astonished.

The breath was trapped in his chest, his hands were numb—except his wounded palm, which was on fire—where he touched her, and still he couldn’t move, frozen for a long paused moment that seemed trapped on the edge of a precipice. All he could do was stare at her and wonder why he’d never noticed the way the sun poured through the skylights to fall in golden swathes upon bundles of rainbow-like fabrics and aisles of white pathways…and the blazing edges of blue eyes.

“Th-thank you!” the woman stammered, and like a spell broken, he could move again, the store returned to normal, the breath released from his lungs in a pained grimace. Hastily, he dropped his arms from her waist and took a few shambling steps backward. His ankle hurt, but it was nothing compared to the fire in his palm.

“Thank you!” the woman said again, her voice chiming and melodious, slightly accented. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she unleashed a blinding smile on him. “I’m not usually clumsy, but...well, I’m so glad you were there.”

“It’s…” Embarrassingly, he had to pause and clear his throat, his free hand fidgeting against his side in an effort to rub away the memory of the feel of her, clean and warm and soft. “No matter. Can’t have customers falling all over the place, now can we?”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened as she took a look around them. “Do you work here?”

“I do,” he said, almost not even embarrassed at the admission anymore. Belatedly, he asked, “Can I help you with something?”

Her smile turned mischievous so quickly that Rumple had to blink rapidly to clear the sparks from his eyes. “I think you already have,” she murmured before raising her voice to speak more normally. “But yes, I was looking for a dress, maybe in the color gold?”

“Ah. Special occasion?” he asked, knowing he was only torturing himself. She was beautiful and had a lovely smile and a voice that seemed to caress him, but she was younger than even Bae and just a customer, and even asking the question, trying to find out more about her, was nothing more than opening himself up to disappointment. But he could still feel the heat of her, trapped against his shirt, against his hands, and torturing himself was something of a daily habit for him anyway. So. He asked.

She flashed her beautiful smile at him again. “No, not really. I mean, I _want_ it to be a dress good enough for a special occasion, but I don’t have any planned. Yet.”

He had a very good imagination—a curse almost as great as that of his perfect memory—so he was fairly certain he only imagined the flirtatious look she gave him after that startling statement. Easier to ignore it than to hope so futilely, he knew.

“Well,” he said, allowing himself a tentative smile because she was smiling at him _still_ and that was hard to combat. “I think I have just the thing. Though it might have to be altered a bit.”

“Is that what you do?” she asked innocently, intently. As if she actually cared about the answer. She kept perfect step with him as he led her into the next aisle, not seeming to notice or care about the limp to his step and the cane in his hand. “Make things fit? Fix things?”

Rumple missed a step, which was fortunate both because it kept him from gawking at her and also prompted her to lay a steadying hand on his shoulder. Of course, it also ruined whatever little bit of manly competence she might have thought he had thanks to him accidentally catching her, and turned him into what he really was—an aging cripple with no future. No chance she could miss the cane anymore.

But she only kept her hand on his arm and looked up at him with an open expression. Gleaming eyes, a quiet curve to her lips that could so easily become a smile, and she was looking at him so intently that it was as if there was no one else around at all. No one that mattered anyway.

“I-I’m the tailor,” he stammered, “if that’s what you mean. Though perhaps I should start putting it as you did—might make it harder for customers to hate me.”

“Hate you?” Her bright blue eyes studied him as if he were a complex mystery. “Why on earth would anyone hate you?”

“The man with the measuring tape?” he reminded her with an arched brow. Her hand had fallen from his arm and she had stepped back a bit and he was on familiar ground now, so it was becoming easier to find his words. “No one likes the person telling them they’re a bigger size than they’d like to think.”

She laughed, which was even better than her smile. “Well, I’ll try to take it well when you tell me my verdict.”

_Her_ verdict…? Oh. The dress. Of course. Rumple gulped at the thought of measuring her. Just a job like any other, he told himself. He’d never had problems measuring anyone or the closeness involved in the task, not when they were just breathing mannequins, more irritating in that they moved and talked and expected him to please them. But _her_...well, if he didn’t know exactly what they were like, he might have asked Jefferson or Viktor to handle it for him.

But she was looking at him, waiting for a response, and even if he was working in the most ignominious of positions for a man who’d once owned the largest antiques business on the East Coast, he could still be professional. “I’ll try to go easy on you,” he said aloud with a smile that turned a bit easier when she laughed again. “Not that I think you have anything to worry about,” he added, then immediately flinched. It was only the truth, but it definitely sounded like he was flirting with her and she surely wouldn’t appreciate—

“I’ll trust you,” she said, her gaze meeting and holding his. He was glad they had reached their destination so that he had something of an excuse for coming to such an abrupt, staggered halt.

“Well…good. Good.” Stupid, he thought, but it was all he could think _and_ say at the moment, with sapphire eyes fixed on him like shining lights from the darkness.

“I’m Belle.” She stuck her hand out for him to shake, her grip strong but her fingers delicate, a juxtaposition that made him feel self-conscious and awkward reaching out with his bigger, more weathered hand.

“Belle,” he said quietly. She had to arch an inquisitive brow to prompt him to let go of her hand—quickly but with inner reluctance—and introduce himself. “Rumple Gold.”

“Rumple,” she said, and smiled, as if just his name were enough to make her happy. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes,” he breathed, then inwardly kicked himself. “I mean, you too. Or, I mean…here’s the dress.” He turned, a bit desperately, and pulled out the evening gown, gold and sleek with off the shoulder sleeves and intricate embroidery detailing a heart-like shape along the bodice. “Perfect for any occasion—party, dinner date. Bowling too, I suppose, assuming you can find appropriate shoes to go with it. All a matter of taste, I suppose.”

Her laugh, this time, was almost surprised, and she partly smothered the tail end of it by biting her lip, as if she had startled herself with the reaction.

Rumple stared at her. Humor was better than bitterness, self-deprecating jokes easier to bear coming from himself rather than cruel taunts from others, but usually all his teasing garnered were rolled eyes and longsuffering sighs, if that. Certainly not laughter. Not happy eyes and quirked lips and a slight crinkle in her brow as she studied him right back.

This had to be a dream. That was it. Just a dream, a vivid fantasy conjured up in his sleep because he’d drunk that coffee too late the night before. That was why Bae had actually spoken to him, why he was applying for a job he’d never even mentioned wanting before—one that might take him away from Rumple and Storybrooke and the remnants of their friendship. That was why his palm burned and stung as if enflamed from that little cut he’d gotten from Darkin’s strange gift. And that was why a beautiful, dark-haired, silver-voiced, kind woman was seemingly flirting with him as if she found him…well, _charming_.

“Uh,” he said intelligently, more to break the moment than anything. “Would you like to try the dress on?”

“I would!” she exclaimed. “It’s beautiful! Not at all what I had in mind, but…very fitting.” And with an extra warm smile, she accepted the dress from his lax grip and disappeared into the fitting room.

Rumple let out a long breath and turned away. He’d really like to believe this was all a dream, but it all felt so _real_ , and the gash in his hand pulsed in time with his heartbeat, more painful than seemed possible for a dream. Besides, Rumple thought ruefully as he readied his supplies, even _his_ imagination wasn’t enough to make up Belle. And life was certainly cruel enough to show him something completely perfect just to prove how completely and utterly it was beyond his grasp.

But all thoughts of Belle were shuffled to the corners of his mind—warm, light-filled corners—when he caught sight of Bae escorting a black-haired, black-eyed woman down an aisle, then leaving her with a nod and a few words and heading purposefully to the back of the store where the break room and storage areas were.

“Bae!” he called out before he could think better of it—or remind himself to use the name _Neal_.

Bae’s shoulders tensed, but he stopped and waited for Rumple to join him in the aisle, throwing a conciliatory smile back toward the dark-eyed woman watching them with suspicion sharp on her features. “What is it?” Bae asked, but even Rumple could tell his impatience was a bit forced.

“I just…” Rumple took a deep breath, pretended he didn’t care. “I heard about the interview. Thought I’d ask if it went well.”

“Yeah.” Bae shifted uncomfortably. “About that. I…it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you or—”

“It’s fine,” Rumple said hastily, that ever-present guilt rising up to suffuse his whole being with dread. “You of all people don’t have to explain anything to—”

“No, I want to.” For the first time in a while, Bae faced him fully. His shoulders were rounded, his hands in his pockets, but at least he wasn’t darting his eyes around in search of an escape. “I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t…I didn’t want you to think it was because of you that I wanted the job. And talking about it just made it seem too real, like I was jinxing it or something. So I didn’t say anything. Not that it matters.” He did look away then, but it wasn’t to get away from Rumple. “Archie said he couldn’t afford to hire anyone for the position right now—me or anyone else.”

“I’m sorry, Bae,” Rumple said quietly, and hated himself for the immediate relief straightening his spine and letting him lighten his grip on his cane.

“Yeah, well. Anyway.” Bae looked over Rumple’s shoulder and forced another polite smile for the dark-haired woman impatiently tapping her foot, her eyes narrowed. “I have to go get a specific belt for this customer. But, well…see you after work.”

“Yeah,” Rumple said, nodding uneasily. “After work.”

Assuming this still wasn’t all a dream.

“Everything all right?”

Rumple turned at the question but came to a stumbling, flabbergasted halt at the sight that greeted him.

Belle stood in the fitting room door, the golden gown draping her curves as if realizing how deserving she was of a close embrace, sparking auburn glints in dark hair, adding sunshine to bright blue eyes. But better than all that, more astonishing, was the look on her face—the quiet concern, the hint of compassion, the interest—as she gazed at him.

“Hey,” he said, then had to pause yet again to clear his throat. “It…it looks amazing.”

She bit her lip, her eyes dropping. “Thanks. Do you think it will need any altering?”

Altering. She expected him to be looking at her as a Clothe More employee, as a tailor concerned with measurements and sizes. Not as a man looking at a woman and concerned about things that had _very_ little to do with measuring a dress.

This definitely _wasn’t_ a dream. A nightmare, maybe, but not a dream.

Right. He breathed in deeply though his nose, let it out through his mouth. He could do this.

Digging his fingers into his injured palm and welcoming the white-hot clarity the pain afforded him, he started forward. “Let’s see, shall we?” he said, and was proud that only someone who knew him well would have been able to hear the strain in his voice.

He did manage to get through the next few moments with his dignity relatively unscathed, mainly because he kept a finger digging into his throbbing palm whenever possible and also because Belle was kind enough to refrain from speaking or moving. She was as accommodating as one of his mannequins, but oh so much more entrancing.

“Truthfully,” he said when he was finished and could finally step back, suffused with relief that he hadn’t made a fool of himself while so near her, “it doesn’t need much. I can take it in a bit here and here, adjust the sleeves so you have a bit more maneuverability, but it’s up to you.”

Belle nodded, glanced up at him rather than the mirror, and said, “Maneuverability is always good. How long would it take you to make the changes?”

He was supposed to say it would take ten to fourteen business days, but that would mean he wouldn’t get so see her again for weeks.

“A day or two,” he heard himself say, and only then realized that the quicker he got it done, the quicker she’d be out of his life forever. Probably for the best, he told the sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Perfect.” Belle smiled at him, so brightly he had to smile back, and slipped into the fitting room to change into her own clothes.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Rumple muttered to himself, thumping his cane against the floor and pretending his hands weren’t shaking.

“Talking to yourself?” Jeff popped up behind him, startling enough to make Rumple jump if he wasn’t so used to the strange man’s abrupt appearances and disappearances.

“Why, worried I’ll steal _your_ trademark oddity?” Rumple snapped. Belle would be coming out of the fitting room soon, and the last thing he wanted was Belle being subjected to Jefferson, and Viktor, who was never too far behind his accomplice.

“Only room for one in my padded room.” Jefferson waggled his brows suggestively and leaned his elbows back against the counter.

Rumple gave the taller man a flat look. His hand was positively _steeped_ in flames now, probably due to all that poking he’d done at it, and if he weren’t afraid to look away from Jeff when he was near enough to reach out and touch, he would have glanced down and made sure it wasn’t bleeding through the gauze bandage. “What does that even mean?” he asked when Jeff just kept looking back at him blandly.

“I’ve found,” Viktor said, ambling around the counter to come up behind, boxing Rumple in the middle, “that it’s usually best _not_ to ask Jeff questions. He either makes no sense at all or makes sense in such a twisted, illogical way that I, for one, would rather not understand it at all.”

“Like I said,” Jefferson interjected, “room for only one.”

Well, Rumple thought, even in the usual things of his mundane life, he could still be surprised, because _Viktor_ was actually making sense and that wasn’t something Rumple was comfortable with at all.

“Rumple?”

All three men turned in the direction of the soft feminine voice. Rumple would have taken a sort of vindictive pleasure at the sight of Viktor and Jeff both staring at the vision of loveliness coming toward him with the evening gown slung over her arm like real, molten gold, but unfortunately, he knew their astonishment would wear off soon and they’d be circling her like vultures.

Belle offered him the dress. “The gown?”

“Ah, yes.” Rumple hastily took the dress and laid it neatly on the counter—risking a quick look down at it to make sure he wasn’t leaving hot, vivid bloodstains where his hand touched it. Then, swiveling on the point of his cane, he daringly cupped Belle’s elbow and guided her forward, away from the motionless Jefferson and Viktor. He was probably more shocked than they were when Belle willingly followed his lead.

“Tomorrow?” she asked.

“Or the next day.”

“Well,” she smiled up at him mischievously, “just in case, here’s my number.” She reached into her pocket, oblivious to Rumple’s mute disbelief, and pulled out a card with her name—Belle French—and cell-phone number. “Here.” She pressed it into his hand. “Call me. For the dress or...you know. Just in case.”

“Call you,” Rumple repeated. “Yes, of course. I mean, when the dress is ready or—”

“ _Or_ ,” Belle said with finality. And with so much more meaning than Rumple thought the word probably possessed on its own. “And thank you again, Rumple, for saving me.”

“Of course,” he said, which was a ridiculous thing to say, but before he could come up with better, she was giving him a last dazzling smile and walking away. Out of the doors. Out of the Clothe More.

Out of his life, with nothing to prove it wasn’t a dream.

Nothing except a golden gown and a white card held in his pulsing hand.

* * *

The temperature in the car was actually pretty warm, especially for Storybrooke, but Rumple didn’t think he was imagining the slight coolness between himself and Bae. He wanted to say something, to try to get back to even the tentative easiness they’d had that morning on the way into work. But that hadn’t been real, had it? It’d just been Bae’s guilt at his secret, maybe even a bit of nostalgia for what he and Rumple had once been to each other as he contemplated leaving him behind. It had been more of a goodbye, actually, Rumple thought, which made it even harder to try to broach the gap between him and his best friend.

So he only looked out the window at the passing scenery, his hand beating out a heartbeat of pain, Belle’s card a significant weight in his breast pocket.

Bae stayed silent, too, even though Rumple could sense him darting sidelong glances at him, shifting uncomfortably as if he _wanted_ to say something. If so, that would be quite the change, Rumple thought bitterly. Bae had talked a lot, once, just after Milah’s abandonment and Darkin’s betrayal. He’d been full of angry denunciations and zealous plans and earnest sympathy, all fury and justice and protectiveness and even a bit of desperation leaking in there, all of it spraying out in every direction. But gradually, he had quieted, stopped talking or planning or venting, his fire and hurt crystallizing into a grim shell, a casing that kept him and Rumple separated. And now he didn’t try at all, and Rumple’s own silence—though he’d grown so tired of it—was too engrained a habit to break so easily.

So here they were. Silent. Separate. Stilted and sitting in the same car only because they had echoes left of their friendship. But only echoes, and soon even those would be gone when Bae left him to travel and see the world, moving on to bigger and better things.

When Bae pulled the car up to the curb in front of Mary Margaret and David’s large, salmon-colored house, Rumple took a deep breath. But his hand flared in sudden, sharp pain, and his hard-won breath rushed out of him in a single gasp.

“Rumple,” Bae said then, decisively, angling in his seat to better face him. “I know you think—”

Rumple wasn’t sure what was worse—the pain in his swollen hand, the fear of what Bae was about to say, or the way Bae so suddenly stopped, his mouth still open, his eyes locked on something over Rumple’s shoulder.

Venturing a crooked smile, Rumple said, “Don’t leave me in suspense, Bae.”

“Rumple.” Bae pointed past Rumple’s shoulder, a frown overtaking his face. “Who is that and why are they wearing a mask?”

“What?” Rumple swiveled in his seat and stared, mouth tight and eyes narrowed, as a figure dressed all in black slipped out the open front door, its movements quick and fluid. Behind it, there was a crash, and Rumple was out of the car and hobbling toward the black figure as fast as he could move anymore. Behind him, Bae called his name; in front of him, the figure cut across the lawn and leapt into the next yard over. Inside him, though, all Rumple could feel was fury. Cold and raging, like invasive oil, entering his bloodstream in sparks and flashes, then attaching itself to his blood cells, clamping on tight, demanding, controlling, blinding him in a haze of _fury_ that someone would come after his sister and brother-in-law, the best people he’d ever known, so giving and accepting, encouraging him and taking him in even after he’d spent time in prison.

His cane slipped in the wet grass and was torn out of his hand. Rumple staggered and almost fell but caught himself by way of a hand reaching out and grabbing a hanging branch in a stranglehold. He thought he’d surely lost the masked figure, but when he got his balance and looked up, he found himself facing a path dead-ended by a fence. And the figure, a form hidden in a rather sophisticated set of…was that body armor?

Rumple froze. His blood was still fizzing with his anger, his bones were crackling with strength, and even his injured hand had stopped screaming at him. But. He clenched his hand into a fist, felt the slight line of the scar, and even though he should have been afraid, should have been petrified with terror that this crazy thief might kill him, all he could think was that he’d never felt so powerful. So strong. So _capable._

“Rumple!” The sound of Bae calling his name, enough fear in his voice to make up for Rumple’s lack of it, broke the moment.

The black-garbed figure leapt into motion, making a jump that seemed nearly impossible to catch hold of the top of the fence and then vaulting over it, disappearing from sight. But not before Rumple noticed a gleam, sharp and serrated, glinting from the figure’s belt.

The knife Darkin had sent him.

But why? Rumple thought distantly. It was shiny and maybe somewhat valuable, but he knew about antiques, knew how to assess value, and the knife wasn’t worth breaking into a house in the middle of a neighborhood and in broad daylight.

“Rumple! Are you all right? You okay?” Bae grabbed Rumple’s shoulders and yanked him around to face him. He peered into Rumple’s face, eyes searching, his hands heavy and almost too warm on Rumple’s shoulders. “What were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice accusatory and angry. And scared. “What if that thief had had a gun?”

“I…” Rumple paused, then, not sure what he’d been going to say. Not even sure, truthfully, what Bae had said. He felt like a fog had encased him and was only now clearing, leaving him disoriented. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. “What…why was a thief here?”

Bae gave a heavy shake of his head and dropped his hands. Rumple didn’t even have time to be disappointed at the loss before Bae was kneeling and picking up Rumple’s cane, placing it in Rumple’s hand and not letting go until he was sure Rumple was steady on his feet. “I have no idea,” he said. “But next time you see a real-live ninja, you might want to _not_ run after them like some kind of hero.”

“That’s not what I was—” he started to say, but he couldn’t finish because suddenly all he could see was Charming’s truck parked in the driveway, visible just past Bae.

Charming’s truck.

Charming was here.

And it was past five, which meant school was out, which meant Mary Margaret was here too.

This time, when he started running—or the closest approximation to it he could come to—Bae was only a second behind him, reaching out a steady hand to keep Rumple upright when they hit the steps to the front door and the staircase up to the second floor. And this time, there was no anger, no haze, only fear, deep and gaping, about to swallow him whole just as it had five years before. He’d already lost so much—his business, his respect, his agility, his chance for love, his future—but at least then he’d still had Mary Margaret and her husband.

But the thief had come from inside the house, and maybe he hadn’t had a gun, but he’d had a knife, and David was a cop, he had guns, and all the thief would have had to do was find one and pick it up and pull the trigger, and Rumple would have lost even more. So much more that he couldn’t afford to lose.

And all for what, a useless knife sent to him by the friend who hadn’t spoken to him since framing him and turning him in for forgery?

“Rumple!”

Rumple and Bae both came to a stop so abrupt it almost became a fall in the doorway of Charming and Mary Margaret’s bedroom. In a flash, Rumple went from terror to embarrassment that was saved from being complete shame only because at least his sister and brother-in-law were still fully clothed.

“What are you doing?” Mary Margaret exclaimed, tugging at her shirt as she sat up. David sat up too, but he kept a hand on her shoulder.

“Am I interrupting something?” Rumple asked, because the only way to escape this situation without anyone being completely humiliated was by laughing at it.

“There was a thief!” Bae blurted before Mary Margaret could explode at Rumple. Apparently, not everyone thought this was a laughing matter. “He was running out of the front door, masked and everything. I don’t think whoever it was is a very _successful_ thief,” he added with a roll of his eyes. “Your brother here decided to chase him, but he went over a fence and disappeared.”

“Rumple!” Mary Margaret cried again, this time in concern, but Charming was on his feet, brushing past Rumple and Bae to head down toward the living room.

“You went after him? What did he look like? What kind of build? Any distinguishing characteristics?”

“I hardly went after him at all,” Rumple said dryly, though his palms were still clammy against his cane.  He was grateful for Bae’s discreet assistance down the stairs. “He was all in black with a mask, a small and slight figure, and he ran fast, that’s all I know.”

Charming knelt to examine the front door, careful not to touch anything. Mary Margaret wasn’t being nearly as careful; she tsked over the mess where the thief had apparently rummaged through the leftover detritus of Rumple’s antique shop, clutter usually kept in a halfway manageable state by Mary Margaret’s tidying nature. She bent and picked up a fallen stand lamp, collected some books that had been tossed aside, and swept together a handful of dropped knick-knacks that had once been worth something.

“What a mess!” she said distastefully. “And you know it’s going to be hard to figure out what was taken out of all this.”

“I think he was after something specific.” Everyone turned to face Charming as he stood. “This lock had to be picked, and in such a way that it didn’t leave any marks behind. Despite the mess, this was a professional, and they must have wanted whatever they’re after bad, to risk coming in here not only in daylight but also while we were home.”

Mary Margaret crossed her arms over her chest, clutching her cardigan tighter around herself. “Well, do you think they’ll be back?”

Charming hesitated, clearly wanting to reassure her but not wanting to lie. “It…it depends on whether he got what he wanted or not.”

Rumple went cold.

The knife. He hadn’t picked it up just because it caught his interest, then, not if he’d been after something specific. He’d been looking for that knife especially, and he had gotten it.

Frustration, thick and suffocating, crashed down on him and made him feel claustrophobic. Not enough for Darkin to ruin his life once—now he had to send him something to cause even more trouble. Only this time that trouble was spilling over onto David and Mary Margaret, and that was _not_ acceptable.

“I think it was Darkin,” he said aloud, and refused to shrink back when they all turned to look at him. “The thief had the knife he sent me.”

“Was it valuable?” Charming asked.

Rumple straightened a bit, unable to deny just how good it felt to realize that David didn’t doubt that he’d know the answer. “It wasn’t anything special,” he said. “A kris dagger, inscribed, maybe a hundred years old. It would be worth a few hundred, maybe a thousand, but without a known legend in its past to give it instilled worth—and there isn’t one I’ve heard about this sort of knife—it’s not worth all this.”

“So…” Bae frowned. “Is it a carrier then? Got drugs or gold or something hidden inside it?”

“They can do that?” Mary Margaret raised her brow.

“You’ve seen what kids can hide in your classroom,” David pointed out. “Adults can be just as creative.”

But Rumple was shaking his head. “It wasn’t tampered with. I checked it over pretty closely to try to figure out why Darkin sent it to me. I didn’t see any signs of hidden compartments.”

“Then why did the thief want it?” Bae asked.

Charming sighed. “I don’t know, but I need to call this in, warn the neighborhood there might be a thief around. Mary Margaret, don’t move anything else until I get someone out here to—”

“No.” Mary Margaret shook her head. “I’m not leaving this mess. You do your thing, and I’ll do mine. A couple pictures aren’t going to make or break this case.”

“Mary Margaret,” Charming began, that half-conciliatory, half-frustrated note in his voice that he always got when he and Mary Margaret argued.

Rumple exchanged a look with Bae, and they both quickly headed out of the living room, ducking into Rumple’s room. Bae chuckled in relief when he closed the door behind them, cutting off the rise and fall of the married couple’s voices, and Rumple grinned in reply.

“Close one,” Bae said, flopping himself down on the bed. Carefully, afraid he’d scare off Bae and ruin this chance, Rumple sat in the chair at his desk. “So,” Bae said, “Darkin sent you a knife, huh?”

“Yes.” Rumple gave an awkward shrug. “I didn’t know what to make of it, and I wanted to forget it, which is why I didn’t mention it this morning.”

Bae let out a mirthless laugh. “I can understand that.”

Digging a finger under the bandage on his palm and fingering the scab there, Rumple studied Bae. “You can?”

“Yeah.” Bae looked around the room, taking in the first and most important antiques Rumple had collected, the ones special to him, the ones he’d been able to keep when his business was taken away from him. All of them items Bae had personally helped him acquire. Rumple let him look and hoped he wouldn’t take the wrong message from them.

“I don’t hate you,” Bae said quietly, reaching out to run a finger over the leather ball, the woven shawl, the notched walking stick—Rumple and Bae’s very first acquisitions, back in high school just after they’d met. “And I don’t blame you for what happened. I just…I need to move on. To do _something_ with my life.”

For a goodbye, it was much more gracious than Rumple had expected. His throat was dry, his head pounding, his heart racing, which seemed odd considering his hand felt just like normal, the swelling heat gone. Maybe the infection had spread inward and that was why he felt sick.

But Bae—no, Neal now—was watching him, waiting, a curious look of trepidation making him look younger.

It was one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but Rumple managed a small smile. “And you should,” he said gently. Softly. Just as a goodbye was supposed to be spoken. “You’re capable of great things, Neal, and you deserve them.” He thought there was probably more to say, but it’d been hard enough getting just that much out, so he reached out a hand instead and was unspeakably gratified when Bae took it and shared his smile.

When Neal dropped his hand, it felt cold and lifeless. Healed but alone. Safe but left behind.

In other words, it felt just like Rumple did.

* * *

He’d thought that would be the end of it, but things were never that easy. Neal stuck around a while longer, avoiding David and Mary Margaret and Deputy Graham Humbert when he showed up to document the scene. Rumple had tried to appreciate the extra time with Bae, the conversation and familiar jokes and smiles, but it felt more painful than cathartic, reminding him of all the reasons he _didn’t_ want to let Bae go. Eventually, he’d had to turn on the TV just to escape the awkward lulls in conversation. It hadn’t really been much better, though, not when the news had shown an important General arriving in Storybrooke, and a blinding headache had formed behind Rumple’s eyes, leaving behind a host of images of the General and security details and pictures of files marked ‘Confidential.’ The flash had come and gone so quickly Rumple wasn’t sure what to make of it. It seemed too strange to even begin to process. Strange enough even Neal had had noticed and turned the TV off. He’d helped Rumple stumble to the bed and left with a quiet “Hope you feel better in the morning,” and then he’d showed up in the morning to pick him up with a concerned “You doing okay?”

Even worse, he kept checking in with Rumple all day long, which meant Rumple could never relax, never let himself feel the crushing disappointment he felt or give into the hopelessness eating him up from the inside out.

It also meant Jeff and Viktor let Neal know all about Belle and the card she’d left with Rumple.

“Whoa!” Neal exclaimed. He turned to Rumple with a huge grin on his face. “When are you going to call her?”

“I’m not,” Rumple said shortly. Usually, whenever he pretended to be hard at work, everyone stayed away, afraid he’d expect the same from them, but this time, it wasn’t deterring Neal—or Jeff or Viktor, or even Ruby, watching from afar—in the least.

Neal stared at Rumple, moving around the counter so he could study him even closer. “You’re _not_? But she obviously wants you to! She was, from all accounts, gorgeous and she obviously liked you—so why on earth wouldn’t you call her?”

“Because,” Rumple snapped, glaring at Neal, “she’s beautiful and sweet and young—and I’m none of those things. I’ll call her to let her know when her order’s ready. Other than that, she’s better off without me bothering her.”

“Rumple,” Neal whispered, and there was something uncomfortably close to pity in his eyes.

“I suppose _you’re_ going to call the woman _you_ waited on yesterday,” he said caustically before Neal could tell him just how sorry he felt for him.

Neal, however, gave him a look that made Rumple wish he’d said nothing. “That dark-eyed woman? She’d sooner kill me than give me her number, and that’s not the same thing at all. Besides,” he said with the hint of a forced grin, “she’s not my type at all. Maybe if she had a sister…”

“And what are the chances of that?” Jefferson interjected.

“Far too astronomical to calculate,” Viktor replied.

Rumple sighed. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

“Not as much as you,” Jeff retorted, but he and Viktor finally got the hint and faded away, more likely because Rumple had mentioned work than because they’d suddenly learned what it meant to be circumspect.

“Forget about them,” Neal advised, and if Rumple didn’t know that Bae was planning on leaving soon, he’d have been filled with hope at the friendly note in his voice.

“Sure, forget about them,” Ruby said, sidling closer now that Viktor wasn’t around. “But I wouldn’t forget about calling that girl if I were you. She really did like you, trust me.”

With a roll of his eyes, Rumple threw his hands up in the air. “Thank you. Does anyone else have any bright ideas to offer?”

Unfortunately, he spoke a little bit too loudly. Leroy, the janitor, half an aisle away, gave a bitter smirk and said, “Yeah, why don’t you try _not_ being so grumpy all the time.”

“Me?” Rumple arched a disbelieving brow. “ _You’re_ telling me not to be grumpy?”

“Takes one to know one!”

Rumple would have delivered a scathing retort, but Neal burst out laughing. It had been too long since Bae had laughed unabashedly with Rumple, but even so, it was the way Neal reached out and clapped his hand over Rumple’s shoulder that made Rumple lose what he’d been going to say. Bae was ready to leave, looking for a way out, but Rumple couldn’t help but fall still and soften and smile back at Neal. It was only a moment, but it was a _good_ moment and Rumple had learned, in the past five years, to take what he could get.

Archie came out of his office, then, venturing out onto the sales floor to offer a quiet word here and there, gentle reproaches or soft encouragement that everyone would ignore the moment he vanished back into the office. As per usual.

Grateful for the interruption, Rumple gave a short nod to Archie—who always seemed a bit intimidated around Rumple for some reason—and turned back to his work.

To Belle’s dress.

He had to admit, as much as he knew it was best not to call her or even dwell on her or the unlikely possibilities, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She _was_ beautiful and kind and she had seemed to enjoy spending time with him and laughed at his weak jokes. In short, she was too good to be true, and that meant even dreaming about her was stupid. He’d already fallen for thinking a beautiful woman could love him, and Milah had taken his heart and his dreams and crushed them in her long, nimble fingers. Belle was very different from Milah—even a few moments’ acquaintance proved that—but the concept was the same. Start hoping for the impossible and life would work overtime to prove how out of his league all things good and wonderful were.

But even knowing all that, his hands were gentle on the golden gown, his alterations painstakingly neat, and the work finished that night even though it meant he stayed an hour late. Which wouldn’t have been a problem except that Neal had someplace to be—some place he was very vague about—and couldn’t wait around for him, and a customer that entered the store ten minutes before closing—ducking in and looking over his shoulder as if he thought someone was chasing him—made a blinding headache burst into being behind Rumple’s eyes.

He fumbled and almost dropped the dress but instead clenched it in a tight, spasmodic grip. Images that seemed disconnected, almost epileptic in their sudden changes and flashes of colors and sounds, scored through his mind—the customer’s face in files with words like ‘assassin,’ ‘suspected terrorist,’ ‘known for kills of heads of state’; a picture of a tree; images of dead bodies and sniper rifles. More and more images until Rumple felt his knees buckle and sparks swim in his vision even though he had his eyes squeezed shut as tightly as possible.

Then, as abruptly as it’d begun, it ended.

Tentatively, Rumple opened his eyes and looked around. The doors were sliding closed behind the man, and Rumple instinctively flinched away, but the images didn’t make an encore appearance and the headache faded into a dull throbbing along the back of his skull.

Uneasy and more disturbed than he wanted to admit, Rumple released his death’s grip on Belle’s dress and smoothed the wrinkles left behind with a shaking hand. Caught by the sight of the scab left on his palm, Rumple held his hand out and ran a finger down the cut. It was faded and pale, almost completely healed, no sign at all of the bright, painful infection he’d been sure it held the day before. It turned a darker red when he pushed his finger into it, but didn’t break or bleed.

Letting out his breath in a half-laugh, half-sigh, Rumple shook his head and turned his attention back to Belle’s dress. He’d been too near Jefferson and Viktor for too long today; their madness was obviously catching. Better to forget the flashes and the maybe-infection had ever happened and just go back to the mundane normality of his life.

It took him ten minutes to smooth the wrinkles from the dress, and another hour to limp home where Mary Margaret chastised him for not calling her to come pick him up. With the remnants of that terrible headache still clinging to the edges of his mind and his leg aching even more than usual, however, it took him only seconds to fall asleep.

* * *

He hadn’t gotten around to calling Belle—or truthfully, hadn’t gathered his courage or his resolve just yet—when he looked up from an order form and saw her walking down the main aisle toward him. He was pretty sure his jaw dropped a bit at the sight of her—because she was just as beautiful as he remembered and because she smiled at him as soon as he saw her and because even knowing she’d be back for the dress, he’d pretty much managed to convince himself he’d never see her again but here she was.

Thankfully, by the time she reached him, he’d managed to recover a bit of his composure.

“Hey,” he said, maybe a tiny bit hoarsely but mostly in a normal tone. “I was just about to call you and let you know your dress is ready. I finished it last night.”

“Oh.” Belle bit her lip. “That…that’s wonderful. Really.”

“Yes.” Rumple eyed her. It was easy to stare at her because of her porcelain skin or sapphire eyes, but he found himself studying her more closely than that, trying to see _beyond_ the beauty, doing his best to figure out what she was thinking when she smiled at him or laughed at his jokes. What had made her decide to come get a new dress for a not-yet-planned occasion. Why she seemed almost disappointed that her dress was ready. Why she’d even given him a second look at all.

“Belle,” he heard himself say, “is everything all right?” It was too personal a question, too _non_ -employee, so he fashioned a quick smile and added, “Not regretting the dress already, are you?”

Her eyes flew to meet his. “Oh, no! No, I’m not regretting the dress.” Her smile materialized again, the mischievous grin he remembered perfectly from the last time because it made her more than just a pretty face, made her complex and intriguing. “I am, though, regretting that I don’t have anyone to wear it _for._ ”

Rumple wasn’t usually struck speechless. Sometimes he had so much he wanted to say that he couldn’t always narrow it down. Sometimes he was too afraid of the consequences to voice what he really wanted to say. Sometimes it just wasn’t worth it to say anything at all. But he always _had_ something to say, always had words collected inside him to be released and let go at the first right opportunity. But now, with Belle staring at him so hopefully, he had nothing. Words all escaped him, leaving him empty and blank, afraid to feel anything or hope anything, because reality would be so much more disappointing if he had any expectations from it.

Belle ducked her head but didn’t back down. “I love exploring and seeing new things, but I’m new to the area and don’t know the best places, so…” She bit her lip and paused, but Rumple still couldn’t move. Or speak. Or do anything to risk shattering this moment. “I was wondering,” she said slowly, “if _you_ could show me some good places. If you’re free, that is.”

Later, he knew, it would be incredibly humiliating to realize that he was _still_ speechless, but at the moment, all he could do was stare. Because this couldn’t be happening. Because it was obviously a trick of some kind, a trap, something that would only shake up his safe status quo and make him hurt and lost all over again.

It couldn’t be real.

But he _wanted_ it to be real. Wanted it more than anything.

So he smiled softly, gently, an innocent smile he hadn’t even known he had anymore.

It seemed to be answer enough for Belle, whose tentative smile turned into a brilliant grin that transformed into a musical laugh when Bae ducked into sight from wherever he’d obviously been spying and yelled, “He’s definitely free, and he would love to go out with you!”

Rumple resolved to kill Neal later, slowly and painfully. Kill him and then hug him.

Because Belle was smiling up at him, looking absolutely delighted, and he was going to get to see her again.

Dream or nightmare, he couldn’t decide, but he’d definitely take it.

* * *

“Does he suspect you?” Moe’s tone was completely professional, his question perfectly by-the-book, but Belle knew she wasn’t imagining the concern behind it. Her supervisor had always been a bit protective of her, ever since he’d approached her and offered her a clean slate, a new name, and a chance to see the world.

Belle tilted her head as she studied her reflection, tucking a curl behind her ear with one hand while she held her cell-phone with the other. “Not at all.” She hesitated then, not sure if she should continue. Her instructors had taught her to always report everything no matter how small or insignificant it seemed, but as a field agent, she’d learned that sometimes keeping a few facts to herself here and there helped get the job done without unnecessary interference from the brass back home. But this was big, and even though she’d managed to reacquire the knife, she hadn’t yet found what had been stolen from DC. Which meant that Rumple—innocent as he seemed, all insecure looks and sincere compliments and wicked humor—was still their prime suspect and she couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Especially now, with the stigma of her former partner’s betrayal casting a shadow over her.

“Belle?” Moe prompted. As easily as she could read him, he could read her, too, she reminded herself.

“I saw Mills,” Belle admitted reluctantly. Her reflection was biting her lip, so Belle carefully rearranged her features and reapplied her lip gloss. “She was at the Clothe More, too. As far as I know, she hasn’t made contact with the mark yet, but she’s definitely onto him.”

Moe was silent a long moment. “Regina,” he finally said, almost contemplatively. If the situation weren’t so dire, Belle would have smiled at the wheels so obviously turning in his head. “Did she see you?”

“I don’t think so.” Belle rolled her eyes at her reflection and reluctantly added, “But I can’t be sure.”

“Be careful,” Moe warned, and Belle breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t pulling her off the mission entirely. “Regina Mills is NSA’s coldest assassin—most who know her claim she doesn’t even have a heart. She won’t hesitate to pull the trigger on you if you get between her and her objective.”

“I’ll be careful,” Belle promised. She liked Moe, really, but patience was always required when reporting to him. Heroics and adventures were never achieved without a bit of danger; she just wished he’d realize and accept that when it came to her. “I’ve got a date with the target in a few moments. Don’t worry, sir—I’ll find and acquire our objective before Mills can find us.”

After a split second that seemed to last unduly long, Moe let out a breath that crackled in Belle’s ear. “All right. Don’t let the mark fool you. He may seem innocent, but who knows what connections or alliances he might have made during his stint behind bars. Agent ZO5O didn’t send the Intersplice to him for no reason.”

“Yes, sir.” Belle straightened and tucked her Smith & Wesson into the sheath on her thigh, then resettled the folds of the golden gown Rumple had adjusted for her. He was good, she thought; she really was able to move more naturally and freely after he’d done whatever it was he did to the sleeves. She gave a last glance at herself to make sure her conforming body armor was hidden beneath shimmering material, her knives and poisoned darts were tucked demurely away in dark curls, and her expression was open and earnest.

Satisfied, she straightened. “And if it turns out that Rumple _does_ have the Intersplice?”

The doorbell rang, and she glanced toward it, not surprised that Rumple was the punctual sort.

“Then,” Moe said, “kill him.”

Her hand already turning the doorknob, Belle shivered, still and always a bit disconcerted by the open kill orders. The chilling words echoed in her words even as she closed her cell-phone, and they were magnified ten-fold by the sight that greeted her.

Rumple, dressed up in a surprisingly elegant jacket and tie, looked up from his fingers—fiddling with his cane—and gave her a shy, wonderstruck smile. “Hey,” he said, carefully, as if afraid he might wake at any moment. There were roses in his free hand, dawning hope in his molten eyes, and a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Just a mission, she reminded herself. And she smiled back at Rumple, accepted the crimson roses that looked like blood against her bare arms, and closed the door behind her.


	2. Chapter 2

Rumple blushed when the door he was trying to open for her stuck, and though Belle thought it was a bit surprising—and maybe a little cute—that a man his age could still blush, she pretended to be intent on smelling the roses he’d brought her. She knew from her earlier trip to his sister and brother-in-law’s house as well as the info she’d been given on him before arriving in Storybrooke that this car actually belonged to his sister, Mary Margaret Nolan. Rumple Gold didn’t own a car—or a house, or a business, or even a dog. He lived with the Nolans, drove to work every morning with his high school friend Baelfire Neal Cassidy, devoted himself almost obsessively to his menial job, and returned home every night where he would turn his attentions to his hobbies—spinning, weaving, browsing for antiques he could no longer possibly afford on the internet, and probably, Belle thought, wondering how his life had gotten to this point.

Or at least, that’s what his file and her own surveillance told her. But like Moe had said, if Darkin had sent the Intersplice to him, there had to be a reason for it. She’d looked all over for the Intersplice during her dangerous foray into his house, but though she’d found the carrier—the knife—she hadn’t found the device itself. Which meant that, as much as she didn’t want to even think about it, Rumple must know what the Intersplice was—and probably how valuable it was, not only to the United States government, but also to any number of elite criminal organizations and hostile nations—and he’d hidden it. Hidden it so well she hadn’t been able to find it despite her very thorough search of his place of residence.

“So,” Rumple said when he slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door beside him. He dropped his cane between the door and his seat, as if hoping she wouldn’t notice it. There was an endearing hint of shy uncertainty when he glanced over to her. “I…I haven’t exactly taken in the sights of the town myself for a while. But there is a good place to eat over on Main Street. It’s small, but it has good hamburgers. Although,” he looked away, his voice going quieter, “hamburgers probably aren’t exactly what you had in—”

“I love hamburgers,” she said delightedly. It was easy, after all these years, to play a part, but she was actually sincere. Usually, her marks took her to expensive restaurants with sushi and cordon bleu and bottles of wine that cost more than a month of Rumple’s current salary; she couldn’t even count how many times she’d sat at those elegant tables and looked at the intricately arrayed plates before her and wished for a simple hamburger.

Rumple looked at her for a moment, studying her intently, and she had the feeling that he thought she was lying, so she gave him another smile and added, “I travel a lot, so I don’t get to stop for hamburgers that often.”

His expression eased a bit. “You travel for your work?” he asked politely.

Belle nodded, knowing he was watching her out of the corner of his eye as he drove them to the restaurant—Granny’s, easily defensible, with an open floor plan that would make it easy to spot any possible hostiles coming her way. “Yes,” she said. “I’m a librarian—or at least, that’s the simplest way of putting it. I travel to find rare books that my clients want to add to their collections.”

“Ah.” His eyes were shuttered, his hands tight over the steering wheel. “Like antiques.”

“Yes,” she said, pretending to surprise. “Do you know anything about them?”

“I—” He paused, and Belle watched him expectantly. She’d given him the perfect opening to tell her about his antiques business—Golden Straw Antiques, the largest collection on the East Coast, rumored to be expanding even into the Midwest—and that would, she hoped, lead into him talking about what had happened to lose him that business. The CIA already knew that Bryce Darkin, or Agent ZO5O, had been his business partner before coming forward with proof that Rumple had forged many of his top-priced collections, but what they didn’t know was whether it had been deliberate. Whether Rumple had told Darkin to betray him in order to make contacts with whoever the rogue agent was working with and give them the Intersplice.

Not that Belle expected Rumple to just tell her everything right away, but every little bit helped. She was very adept at reading emotion and intention and truth behind the lies and half-truths and evasions people were so capable of spouting off.

But Rumple just shook his head and gave a tight smile. “Not really. Maybe in another life.”

“Ah.” Belle sat back, a bit disappointed. Since she wasn’t supposed to know anything about his past, he’d just made it almost impossible to press him on the subject.

“So what brings you to Storybrooke?” Rumple asked after a moment. “There aren’t any rare books here that I know of.”

“No,” Belle said with a slight shake of her head. “But you do have a lovely library in need of some loving care. And I’ve been growing…a bit tired…of always being on the move. I was thinking of maybe taking over the library here.”

“You might stay?” His voice was caught somewhere between polite interest and disbelieving awe, and Belle had to look over at him just to try to read his expression.

“Well, I was thinking of it,” she said with a light laugh that disappeared when Rumple swallowed and looked away with the tiniest hint of a smile curving his lips.

“Here we are,” he said abruptly, pulling the car into a parking space along Granny’s. “It really isn’t much,” he added, that customary doubt leaking back into his voice.

“It looks very cozy,” Belle pronounced.

“Yes, most things look cozy from the outside,” Rumple commented dryly, surprising a genuine laugh from Belle. Truth to tell, it almost scared her, a bit, that he could do that to her—it was the third time he’d made her laugh without even seeming to try, and for an agent very used to her covers and her facades, it was disconcerting. It was just that every time she thought she had a handle on him—every time she was sure he was a sweet but washed up man who’d lost too much and didn’t have the heart to keep fighting, he’d suddenly do something to surprise her—like make a teasing observation with an almost hidden bite to it, or blush at something simple and innocuous, or stare at her as if he weren’t quite sure she was real.

“Let’s see the inside, then,” she challenged him, and had to smile again in response to Rumple’s own shy smile.

He led her inside, and they were quickly seated in a booth table to the side. Belle made sure she was facing the door, not wanting to be surprised if Mills was following Rumple and decided to force a confrontation. The NSA, in her experience, preferred blatant conflict over the subtler methods of persuasion and infiltration the CIA favored.

“So…” Belle paused, looked around, then leaned closer as if to divulge a secret, pleased when Rumple indulged her by tilting forward. “I hope I won’t scare you off if I admit that I’m not very good at dating.” He was close enough for her to see the flash of consternation darkening his eyes, the minute stiffening of his body. He covered it up quickly, but that was the benefit of being so close—being able to see what he wanted to hide.

“Talking,” she added before he could say anything. “I’m not great at talking, or getting to know people.”

“Really?” His surprise wasn’t faked. “But you…”

“What?” She grinned flirtatiously at him. “But I what?”

He shrugged, his fingers playing with the napkin under his water glass. When he answered her, she noticed that he was careful not to meet her eyes. “You talked to me. At Clothe More. And you’ve gotten me to talk about myself a bit—more than most people can accomplish.”

She was charmed by the way he gained confidence as he spoke, the rise in the volume of his voice, the way he straightened and looked at her. For the first time, she thought she could see how he’d been such a successful dealer. She certainly felt more confident, which was strange since, well, yes, she didn’t talk much—having to keep her entire life a secret from everyone but those with high security clearances made it almost impossible to confide in anyone—but she had only said what she did to make him more comfortable with doing most of the talking tonight.

In the end, she gave a nervous chuckle, pretended it was faked, and said, “Well, I do a lot of reading. I’m a bit of a bookworm. Social situations aren’t my forte.”

His smile was warm and slow and crooked. “Nor mine. Just pretend I’m a character in one of your books then.”

Something fizzled and shook and fell to plop, unceremoniously, in the pit of her stomach as she stared at Rumple. So open, so gentle, so…hopeful. And so very dangerous. Because in only moments, he’d already seen through her. Oh, not her cover, not why she was really there or anything like that, but because…because that was exactly what she did. Every situation, every new cover, she mentally matched it with one of her favorite books, and she played the character and tried to read between the lines of the other characters in the situation.

Wanting suddenly to writhe under his stare, she pulled her drink to her and played with the straw.

As if he could tell he’d made her uncomfortable, Rumple swallowed and changed the subject. He told her about his sister and his brother-in-law—and Belle laughed again when he admitted that he called David Nolan Prince Charming—and about the people he worked with, and he teased her into using ketchup on her hamburger—said something about the taste being magic, and the line should have seemed irrepressibly dorky but it only made her laugh—and Belle almost forgot that this wasn’t really a date.

Until the door chimed and Belle glanced up out of deeply ingrained habit—not for nothing was she sitting where she could see the entirety of the diner’s open floor plan—and her eyes locked on the one person she had most wanted to avoid.

Regina Mills. NSA’s most ruthless assassin.

Regina looked straight at Belle, smiled a smile so cold Belle actually shivered…and then she turned and went to sit at the bar. Belle had only seconds to be surprised before the door opened again and six men came in. Unsurprisingly bland, completely unremarkable…all of them carrying concealed weaponry and each one locking onto Rumple with disconcerting abruptness.

Belle leapt out of her seat and tugged on Rumple’s hands. “Rumple,” she said with a smile more faked than any since before he’d picked her up tonight, “I just thought of something I want you to see. Something I want to show you.”

She’d picked a booth in the back of the diner, the last one before the hallway that led to the restrooms and a backdoor. It’d take her and Rumple only seconds to get out of Granny’s and on the way to somewhere a bit more defensible. If, that is, he would just. Get. _Up_.

There was nothing of her urgency in his face; instead, there was only bewilderment and a spark of awe and something she didn’t know how to name as he looked down at her hands on his, pulling at him in a useless attempt to get him to move.

“Uh, we don’t have the check yet,” he finally managed to say. When she handed him his cane, hurried and impatient, he went expressionless and silent. She was getting sloppy, messing up the dynamic between them, losing what little trust she’d earned from him, but the men were right behind him now, and there was no more time.

“Okay,” she said, and swung to put her own body between Rumple and the NSA goons. She lashed backward with a sharply pointed heel and caught the first man in his instep. He went down with only a grunt—agents were trained not to make noise that might alarm the civilians around them, and right now Belle planned on taking full advantage of that.

She kept her eyes on Rumple, but her peripheral vision alerted her to three of Regina’s goons trying to surround her. Rumple looked down at her hand when she placed it on his arm, stupefied into silence once more. It was enough of a distraction for her. She reached up, and with a single practiced movement whipped the darts from her hair at each of the closest three agents. One staggered and fell into a booth, another fell into a chair, and the third managed to make it out the door before collapsing.

Rumple turned toward the noise, and Belle only just barely managed to ‘accidentally’ jostle him. His hand caught at her elbow to steady her, and she stepped in closer to him, covering as much of his body as she could. Her body armor would be enough to stop any tranquilizers the remaining two men might send his way.

Unfortunately, her luck was running out. Rumple might not be used to feminine company, and he might be awed that a beautiful woman was paying attention to him, and he might even be desperate for the company, but he wasn’t an idiot. Granny’s dinner rush wasn’t going to hide the men dropping like flies for too much longer, and Belle’s own haste wasn’t doing her any favors. Already she could see Rumple’s eyes beginning to narrow. He let go of her arm and stepped back a bit too smoothly. Regaining his cool, distancing himself—beginning to suspect her.

She couldn’t let that happen.

“Rumple,” she said, and stepped closer to him, tried a coy smile. It’d been a while since she’d played a seductress and the part had never come easily to her, but needs must. “There’s only one place in town I’ve really explored, and I want to share it with you. A way to make this occasion special enough to warrant this dress.”

He softened. An almost miniscule change she saw because she was desperately looking for it. Then she was clinging to his arm, escorting him toward the back of the diner and through the back door. The last of the knives disguised as hairpins delayed the last agents, but the blades weren’t tipped with the tranquilizing agent so she couldn’t count them out entirely. And there was still Regina.

“Do you mind if I drive?” she asked, doing her best to disguise her impatient stride as eager flirtatiousness. She dropped her hand from his elbow to his hand and let her fingers play through his, callused along the edges of his fingertips in a way she’d never felt before. She smiled up at him and turned to walk backward, dancing back and leading him to the car.

“Planning on dumping my body in a dark alleyway?” he asked, and for a heart-stopping moment she thought he was serious. Then he smirked at her, reminding her of his wicked humor, and Belle let out a relieved laugh.

“Maybe I just want to test your bravery,” she replied. It was the wrong thing to say. His smile dropped away as if it’d never been. His eyes went dead.

And Regina fired a shot that, though suppressed, still broke the stillness of the night in a way that couldn’t be explained away.

“Get down!” Belle dove for Rumple and hoped she didn’t hurt him too badly when he hit the asphalt with an audible thump. She came up on top of him, peering over his shoulder toward where Regina had been, her Smith & Wesson in her hand. It’d be safer to fire a shot just to keep Regina huddled up for an extra moment, and if it came to that, Belle _would_ fire, but for now, she’d prefer not to alert the entire town that a shoot-out was occurring.

Her mistake came when she glanced down to Rumple. A split-second glance, but enough to throw her completely.

Rumple was still beneath her—unnaturally still, even, like a corpse, which was bad enough. Worse, though, worse than everything, was the complete betrayal painted across his face. The hurt, the bewilderment, the surprise…the resignation, the self-loathing, the anger. All of it there for just that glance before he shut it all away behind nothing. A mask of complete and total apathy that hit her like a sledgehammer to her body armor.

Another shot that nicked the road just inches away from Rumple’s head ended Belle’s moment of regret.

“Get up!” she ordered, half-pushing, half-pulling him to his feet and shoving him toward his car. She finally did fire a shot that left the dark form of Regina diving toward some bushes. Their time really had run out.

No more subtle digging for information. No more gentle prodding to see what kind of man Rumple was. They were down to the wire and there was nowhere to go now but to either a bunker or a prison.

Rumple tossed her the keys as soon as she slid into the driver’s seat. Belle didn’t know why but she wasn’t about to question her good fortune. They peeled away into the night with the screeching of tires, black skid marks left behind them.

“So, I assume you will be looking for a place to dump my body after all, eh, dearie?” he asked caustically. She was driving too fast to really be able to get a good long look at him, but she could tell just from the color of his knuckles over his cane—bone-white and gleaming in the moonlight—that he wasn’t nearly as calm as he was trying to appear.

And that, oddly enough, was what made her at once wholly and completely sure that he wasn’t her enemy.

She still didn’t know where the Intersplice was, and she didn’t know why Darkin had sent the top-secret program that only a handful of higher-ups knew about to a nobody tailor, but she _did_ know that Rumple didn’t have the answers. He was part of this all right, but not of his own free will.

So it was time to come clean.

“Listen, Rumple, that woman who’s after us—Regina Mills—she’s from the NSA and she’s after something that was stolen from the government. A program so dangerous that if it falls into the wrong hands it could easily be considered a weapon of mass destruction.”

“Right,” he drawled, the full effect of his sarcasm dulled only slightly by the way he had to cling to the door in order to keep his seat as Belle wrenched them through another tight turn. She didn’t think Regina was close enough behind them to be following so she wasn’t bothering to try to lose a tail. She was, however, pretty sure that the assassin had been able to plant some kind of tracker on either them or the car, so they’d have company entirely too soon. She had only moments to break through the walls Rumple was busy erecting and get him to work with her.

“I know this sounds unbelievable,” she began, but Rumple cut her off.

“Oh, no, trust me,” he shot her a venomous look, “it’s much easier to believe that you were using me as cover than that you were actually interested in going out with me. This is really just my penance for daring to believe the universe was done punishing me yet.”

There were all sorts of things to say to that, and yet…no way to find the right words.

“I wasn’t using you as a cover,” she said. Her voice was small, quiet, and she wished she could take it back. She remembered being on the other side of this tableau, after all, not that long ago, only she hadn’t even had the chance to ask her questions. She’d been left behind without even a word, left holding the bag for a partner she’d trusted completely, facing questions from her superiors and the mark of suspicion that would never go away.

Rumple laughed. Not the warm, almost-surprised sound he’d gifted her with over hamburgers. A cold, disdainful snort that lashed out like a weapon. “I think the gunshots put paid to that excuse, dearie. No need to keep playing the ingénue.”

“Rumple, you have the Intersplice—the program we’re looking for. We traced it here to you.” She parked the car in a hurry and turned to face him. “Darkin stole it from us, and we know he sent it to you.”

The transformation that occurred then took her aback. His face twisted into a snarl so fierce she actually found herself gripping her gun half-raised, as if ready to shoot him should he leap on her like a ravening beast.

“Darkin!” he spit. “Of course he’d be the cause of troubling my life yet again!”

“What did he send you?” she pressed. She took her finger off the trigger, but only cautiously. She liked Rumple—a _lot_ —but she didn’t know this man sitting across from her, vibrating with fury and hatred. “What did it look like? Have you seen Darkin?”

A mistake to say the name again. Rumple sneered and opened his mouth, and—and then stopped. Something like a purple sheen crossed over his eyes. His expression froze. His body twitched.

Then, an instant later, he shivered and shook and thumped a hand against the side of his head as if to get rid of water in his ears. He blinked, and blinked again, and then looked at her. A helpless, plaintive look, the monster completely subsumed beneath the fearful, timid man who’d caught her when she faked a fall into his arms.

“What’s happening to me?” he asked. “What did you do?”

That hurt, a sharp stinging pain. She never got used to these rare times when her marks saw beyond the cover and realized how much she’d lied. And she hadn’t lied to Rumple, not nearly as much as she usually did, but she knew the semantics wouldn’t help him—or her—feel any better.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “And we don’t have time to sit here. Mills will be here any second—and, Rumple, as mad as you are at _me_ , just remember that I came here to get the Intersplice with your help. _She_ came here to take it from your dead body.”

He stared at her. Even when she exited the car and circled it to open his door and help him out, she could feel his stare on her, like a lightning bolt that wouldn’t fade.

“You,” he breathed as she tugged him up out of the car. “It was you in my sister’s house, wasn’t it? You’re the one who took the knife?”

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

“Lying to me wasn’t good enough? You had to add breaking and entering to your crimes, too?” He was dismissive, contemptuous, even as he leaned heavily on her while she led him up the stairs that snaked up the back of the library. Far from angering her, his rage only made her admire him. He had gone from one extreme on the emotional spectrum to the other in only an hour’s time, been shot at, betrayed, and lied to—and yet, even with his leg dragging behind him, he was unabashed and uncowed. He _could_ have been an agent, a _good_ one.

Of course, his words also made her realize that for all she’d outed Regina and Darkin and the Intersplice, she hadn’t yet introduced herself. She almost never got the chance to besides the moments she established her cover with her mark.

“I’m not a criminal.” She unlocked the door at the top of the stairs and led him into the dusty apartment. It hadn’t been lived in for years, if not decades from the look of it. The only sign of habitation was the blanket folded up on the arm of the ratty couch in the corner. She’d beaten the dust out of the couch before sleeping there, all she needed to make the place livable. The agency always offered to put her up in apartments or hotel rooms, but she hated leaving a trail someone could follow. Squatting was the easiest way to make like a ghost.

“I’m CIA,” she continued, and wondered that he was still following her. She’d expected him to balk long before they got here. It was only then that she realized she still had her Smith & Wesson in her left hand. He might not think he _had_ the option of pulling away from her and planting his feet.

And truth to tell, he didn’t. The roar of an engine outside alerted her to Regina’s arrival. The Evil Queen liked her flashy cars. Belle had always preferred models that blended in a bit better and _didn’t_ alert the whole state to her comings and goings.

Belle tightened her grip on Rumple’s arm and pulled him up into another stairwell off of the apartment. This door was locked, too; unfortunately, she hadn’t had enough time to have a key made for this one. She drew away from Rumple long enough to slam her foot against the doorjamb. The rotting wood split and cracked, though the lock held. It didn’t matter—there was enough of a hole for her and Rumple to climb through into the clock-tower. A perfect hiding place, really. It was a shame she had to blow it already.

“CIA,” Rumple huffed. She could tell he was trying to cover how winded he really was, taking deep breaths and turning half away from her. He was slumped over his cane, though, his foot sticking out at an odd angle, and Belle felt a rare twinge of guilt thrum through her. She’d _so_ wanted to keep this safe and quiet and subtle. To grill him over dinner and laugh with him until she proved his innocence, and leave him with good memories and no Intersplice.

She should have known that was only wishful thinking. She’d always been a bit of a dreamer.

“Yes, CIA. I was sent here to find and retrieve the Intersplice, a program that collects and stores all the information ever collected by the United States government. Every dirty secret, every backroom deal, every important player—it’s all in the Intersplice, all collated and broken down and distilled into information the CIA, the NSA, every initial you can think of uses to protect our country. Darkin stole it, and sent it to you before he was killed.”

“Why?” Rumple snarled, whirling on her. “ _Why_ would he send me anything? How could he even _know_ about this Intersplice?”

“He was an agent.” The sound of a door crashing open from below them made every muscle in Belle’s body clench. She took three hasty steps to get between Rumple and the door—the only exit or entrance in the place.

It was beautiful here, the clock face silhouetted across the back of the wall, the moonlight breaking in fractured patterns along the floor. Definitely romantic—which meant secluded and quiet and the perfect place to hide a body.

“Darkin did send me that kris dagger,” Rumple finally said, his voice coating the air like the dustmotes that shimmered in the glow of the moon. “But that’s all he sent. I thought the cut it gave me was all the trouble he’d cause me this time. It figures that there’s more to come.”

Regina was on the steps, headed up, only split seconds away.

Belle suddenly felt as if the entire world paused and hovered between one page and the next. She felt her neck swiveling, saw herself turn to face Rumple, as it all clicked suddenly into place.

Why she couldn’t find any sign of the Intersplice.

Why Rumple’s hand had been bandaged when she first met him.

Why he’d gone so still and strange outside when she first mentioned Darkin.

“The Dark Curse,” she whispered.

And then Regina burst into the room with a shot Belle had to duck from, and with no more than that, they were in a stand-off.

“Give up the cripple, French,” Regina said coldly. “We’re both here for the same reason, so let’s not make this hard on either of us.”

“Wait!” Belle called. Her hands were sweaty on her gun, but her aim was steady. Rumple stayed stock-still, for which she was grateful; it made it easier to try to stand in front of him. “Wait, Mills, this isn’t what you think! He doesn’t have the Intersplice!”

Regina shrugged. “Not my problem. My orders were to neutralize Darkin’s accomplice, not worry about the program.”

“Excuse me,” Rumple interrupted, his voice smooth for all that there was a slight hitch to his breathing. “I’m not Darkin’s accomplice.”

“That’s not what your file says,” Regina sneered. She feinted a jab toward Belle and took the hit Belle retaliated with. She grunted at the impact but still managed to take a step around so that Rumple was now clearly in her sights. Belle’s heart juddered and shook, and she swung her gun around to point unerringly at Regina’s forehead.

“Stop!” she yelled. “Stop, you can’t shoot him! He _is_ the Intersplice!”

Regina hesitated. A single second of indecision, but in it Belle breathed out a sigh of relief. Mills had been briefed on the Dark Curse, then. And if she knew what exactly the Dark Curse meant, then there was no way Rumple was going to die tonight.

Unfortunately for all of them, Rumple didn’t know that.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” he said, “but it sounds like Darkin’s the one you really want. Well, I haven’t seen him in years, but I’m more than happy to tell you anything that will lead you to him.”

“I killed Darkin already,” Regina said dismissively. Belle wished she could have been looking at Rumple for that, so she could have analyzed his reaction. As it was, she didn’t dare look away from Regina for even a second, and all she knew was that he tensed behind her. “Now I’m here for the accomplice he sent the Intersplice to.”

“Rumple,” Belle said with forced calmness in her voice, “show her your hand.”

There was a movement behind her—Belle’s spine prickled; she hated having anyone behind her, though she knew Rumple didn’t have a weapon to shoot her with—and Regina’s face spasmed.

“I thought that whole Dark Curse nonsense was just theoretical,” she spat. “Whose bright idea was it to shove that kind of information into someone’s bloodstream?”

“What matters,” Belle gritted, “is that he’s too valuable to kill. Your orders are invalid.”

“Fine.” Regina smirked. “You put you gun down first, CIA.”

“How about together?”

“How about,” Rumple suddenly said coldly, “I leave you both here to finish this little tete a tete of yours, and I’ll just show myself out.”

He’d taken only two limping steps when Regina stepped toward him, her gun still held unwaveringly toward Rumple.

“I don’t think so, cripple,” Regina said. “You stay put or—”

“Or what?” Rumple sneered at her, his eyes shuttered and dark. “You’ll shoot me? You both just decided I was too valuable to kill.”

“Not too valuable for a bullet in the leg.”

“Oh, yeah,” Belle snapped back. “That’ll definitely put him in a cooperative mood.”

“She’s right,” Rumple said with a look she couldn’t identify. She was afraid it was a bad look, but his tone was so carefully smug that it struck her as discordant. “The date angle worked a lot better. For a while, anyway.”

One final searing glance shot her way—a pointed remark that made Belle feel strangely self-conscious, raw and exposed—and then Rumple made it to the stairs. He moved slowly, so gingerly Belle was sure she _had_ hurt him when she’d tackled him earlier. Either she and Regina could have easily caught up to him, but they both stood there and let him leave.

“He knows this isn’t over, right?” Regina asked when they were alone, their weapons finally pointed more toward the floor than each other.

“Yeah,” Belle said softly. “I think he does.”

Regina sighed a heavy sigh and finally holstered her gun. “I’ll make the call. You make sure he gets where he’s going without tripping and hurting himself.”

“He just went through a lot,” Belle said. She’d never defended a mark before, not like this, but then, he wasn’t a mark anymore. Now he was an asset, and in a lot of ways, that was worse. Assets didn’t get many choices aside from the color of their bunker’s walls, and their handlers didn’t usually care to listen to them much.

She would be different, Belle decided. She _would_ listen to him. She’d do what she could to help him. She’d try to make sure he wasn’t completely miserable in this life his ex-friend had just damned him to. And maybe…maybe he’d make it through this intact. Maybe by the time they found a way to lift the Curse from him, he’d still be able to blush and he’d still get shy and nervous before making a quip that got under her skin.

She’d come to Storybrooke on a mission to find a stolen object, then thought she might have to kill the man she finagled a date from, and now she was already planning her new mission as a handler. Things changed fast in the field, and she was fine with that. Besides, this was her mistake to correct. Her partner was the one who’d supposedly gone rogue and let Darkin and the Home Office have the Intersplice. She wasn’t sure she believed it even now—Phillip was many things, but a hidden monster? no, it was impossible, so out of character for him—but it was still on her to clear their name and fix her image in the agency’s eyes.

As she followed Rumple from afar, tailing him as he limped his way back to Mary Margaret’s car, Belle tried to convince herself that Phillip and the Home Office and the threat of the Intersplice were the reason she was so intent on remaining here.

Unfortunately, as well as she could lie to others, she’d never been that great at deceiving herself, and she knew her reasons were so much simpler.

And so much more dangerous.

After all, handlers weren’t allowed to have any attachment to their assets.

To _Rumple_ , she thought.

“To my _asset_ ,” she insisted, and heard the lie in her own voice.

* * *

Rumple carried the keys with him everywhere. He’d tried leaving them behind, tried throwing them away, but no matter what he did, they found their way to his pocket before too long. But then, he’d never been great at letting go of things.

The lock didn’t stick at all even though it’d been nearly a year since he last came here. Rumple let the door swing shut behind him and flipped the lights on.

His tiny store had been gutted in the police investigation so long ago, so many priceless artifacts confiscated and probably still languishing in some police warehouse somewhere. Despite all the empty spaces he could still name, though, there were enough pieces left behind to make the place look smaller than it was. Even just the scent of dust and age and polish made him sway, a thousand memories rising in his mind.

And more.

An old leather ball made purple mist fog his vision as images of a refugee boy and security surveillance of that same boy running from armed soldiers shouting in a different language played across his mind. A unicorn mobile made more images, quick and varied and almost kaleidoscopic, swirl through his brain until he thought he was going to faint. Rumple let out a breath and leaned heavily on his cane, reaching out with his free hand to grasp at the cold display counters. Its familiar feel grounded him long enough for the visions to fade and the purple to blink away.

“Rumple?”

He’d known she was following—if this Intersplice was half as valuable and a quarter as dangerous as they told him it was, there was no way they’d just let it go wandering around the streets on its own—so he didn’t jump to hear her voice. He did tense, though. It was easier to look around at the remains of his once-thriving business now dark and abandoned than it was to look behind him at Belle.

Belle.

Just the thought of her name made his throat tighten. The feel of her in his arms. The sight of her smile gilded by the sun. The way she laughed at his jokes and reached for his hand.

All of it lies.

Fake.

A trap designed to snare him.

She’d been the one protecting him tonight, but that was only, he reminded himself harshly, because of the Intersplice. It could just as easily become her pointing at him the gun she’d pulled from somewhere in that dress he’d tailored so specifically for her.

“I want to stay here,” he said in a carefully modulated tone. He’d done this before, after all, negotiated and demanded and come to agreements. He’d been ruthless once, in his own way; maybe it was time to remember that. And maybe the Intersplice would help with that. His blood was sizzling with power and manufactured courage, like when that masked intruder— _Belle_ , he reminded himself again—had fled Mary Margaret and Charming’s home.

“They’re not going to like that,” she said softly, “but I think we can make them agree to it.”

“I want it out,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. It’d been so long since he felt worth anything. So long since he _was_ worth anything. And even longer since he’d felt brave.

“That’s what everyone wants,” she assured him. “All the best experts will go to work on it. I’ll get the people who designed the Intersplice here to help. Rumple…” She paused, then, long enough he had to lock his joints into place to keep from turning and looking at her. “All the theories about the Intersplice actually being put into a person…nobody thought it would work too well. They call it the Dark Curse. Apparently, most of the scientists who studied it thought it would…well, it would have long-term ramifications on the host’s sanity.”

Rumple let out a dry and mirthless laugh. “This just gets better and better.”

“Don’t worry.” Belle sounded determined. Protective. She sounded like she cared. “We’ll get your life back, Rumple. No matter what it takes.”

And finally he turned. Finally he looked at her. If he’d hoped that knowing the truth about her would make it easier, he was disappointed. She was still so beautiful, so mesmerizing…so unattainable.

She was only there because it was her job, he reminded himself, but all he could see—an image so much stronger than any the Intersplice could throw at him—was the struck and wondering look on her face when he told her to pretend he was a character in a book. The slow way her smile grew and turned into laughter.

Maybe she was lying. _Definitely_ she was far outside his reach. But he knew from experience that when his life was turned so drastically on its head, he needed something to hold onto. His store. Neal.

Belle.

“I’ll help you,” she promised him, “if you trust me.”

A deal, and that’s what he knew best, wasn’t it?

“The deal is struck,” he said, and heard the hope in his own voice.

 

The End


End file.
